Page 57 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"Anyway!" Emory chirped, her mood shifting back to happy in a heartbeat. "I made you some rotten candy!" She held out a stick of cotton candy, but it was not just pink. It had drips of red running through it, like blood.

I took it reluctantly, my fingers brushing against hers. They were cold. I pulled off a small piece and put it in my mouth. It was surprisingly good. Real good. Better than the over-sweet shit they sold at the Mercy Ridge carnival every fall. "It's good," I said, a little surprised.

Emory giggled, excited now. She ran over and threw her arms around me in a tight, sudden hug. I stood there for a second, my arms frozen, before I awkwardly patted her on the back. She had to be in her early twenties, at least. As I held her, I could not help but wonder where she fit into all this. What was her story? And why did she feel like the most dangerous thing in this whole damn holler?

Just then, the boys got up from their barrels, the doll heads on the spikes seeming to watch them as they moved. "Ready for a walk?" Maverick asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

I took another look around the shack, at the faded lights and the doll heads, and then at Emory's creepy, unblinking smile. "Sure, why not," I said, my voice flat. What else was I gonna do?

They led me back out to the midway, the chain still wrapped around Blythe's arm. The sun was lower now, casting long, eerie shadows across the decaying path. We walked past a booth with a life-sized clown figure propped up against the counter. Its grin was wide and painted, but its eyes were dark, empty sockets. And there was blood. Blood splattered across the clown's chest, across the counter, and dripped down the sides of the booth in dark, sticky rivers. A cold feeling washed over me. Someone definitely was murdered there. I could feel it in my bones.

I quickened my pace, wanting to get away from that booth. We walked past the silent Ferris wheel and toward what looked like a pumpkin patch. But it was not like any pumpkin patch I had ever seen. The pumpkins were all different shades of orange and deep, earthy greens. Some were a pale, creamy yellow, almost white. They came in all shapes and sizes, too. Some were lumpy and misshapen, with warty skin and gnarled stems, while others were smooth and perfect, almost too perfect. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, with a hint of something sweet. It was the smell of Halloween, the real, dark kind, not the candy-corn-and-costumes kind. It was the smell of death and decay, and it was beautiful.

Chapter 20

I watched her walk, Blythe holding the chain like a damn handbag, the metal links a dark promise against his arm. She moved with that feisty little sway of hers, the one that drove me up the fucking wall, and the sight of her in that old, white dress with those black cowboy boots on made my blood boil in a way that had nothing to do with anger. It was hunger. Pure hunger.

She stepped into the pumpkin patch, the heavy tread of her boots sinking into the earth. The pumpkins were scattered like rotting jewels around her, a patch of orange and green that looked like a graveyard for autumn. And she was the queen of this graveyard. She was the bride.

The thought of it sent a sharp jolt straight to my cock. She was going to be ours. Not just for one night, but forever. She was going to be our bride, the queen of this decaying knucklebones carnival where my family rules. She was going to be the centerpiece, the trophy, the heart of our kingdom. I could see it now—her standing at the head of the table, her face painted up, her eyes wide and scared, but looking at me with that little spark of defiance that made me want to break her and keep her at the same time. It made my dick hard, throbbing against my jeans, aching to be inside her, to mark her, to make her mine in every way possible.

I took a long drag of my cigarette, the smoke curling around me, obscuring her from view, but I could still feel her presence. I was going to make her mine. I was going to make her scream my name. And when I did, I was going to make sure everyone in the holler heard it.

We walked to a sitting area, a little clearing tucked between two gnarled old oak trees. A couple of mismatched, high-backed chairs were draped in heavy, velvet-looking fabric, the color of dried blood. Between them sat a small, wrought-iron table, its legs twisted into the shapes of climbing vines and thorns. On the table sat a collection of silver candlesticks, all different heights, their wax pooled and hardened into strange shapes. A big, cracked mirror leaned against one of the tree trunks, its surface cloudy and silver, reflecting the dying light in a way that made everything look wavy and wrong.

We watched her for a moment as she wandered toward the pumpkin patch. Blythe set the chain down on the ground, the metal links clinking softly against the dirt. He walked over to the patch, his steps quiet and sure, and picked out a good-sized pumpkin, one with a nice, sturdy stem. He brought it back to the table and set it down with a soft thud. Then he pulled out his knife, the one he always carried, and sliced open the top. He didn't use a spoon or any of that bullshit. He just reached in with his bare hands and started pulling out the guts, the slimy, stringy strands and seeds falling onto the ground in a wet, messy pile.

I watched him, my mind already on tonight. "I wonder what Momma's gonna say," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face. "You think she'll like our new toy?"

Blythe didn't even look up from his work. "You always have to push it," he said, his voice flat, but I knew him. He was just as excited as I was.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep things interesting," I shot back, my eyes still on Rory. "It's no fun if she just says yes right away. Where's the challenge in that?" I loved testing Momma's boundaries, seeing how far I could push her before she snapped. It was a game, our favorite game. But at the end of the day, I was her boy. I just wanted to make her proud, to show her I could handle this, that I could be the one to carry on all this. Rory was the perfect way to do that. She was a challenge, a beautiful, fiery challenge, and I couldn't wait to see what Momma would do with her.

I watched her walk up to us, the black boots sinking into the dirt, and I felt that familiar itch in my gut. She looked at the pumpkins like it was an everyday activity. She took another bite of that pink cotton candy, her tongue darting out to lap up the sugar, slow and deliberate. I watched that tongue move, wet and pink, and I swear to god, my dick got harder than a rock. I imagined that tongue wrapped around my cock, swirling it, sucking it dry until I spilled my seed down her throat. But then I looked at her mouth, all red and wet, and I got this sick, twisted thought.

She held out the stick of candy to me, her eyes glinting with that feisty little spark. "Hold this for me, Mav," she said, her voice low and sultry.

I took the stick, my fingers brushing against hers. "You want me to hold your candy?" I laughed, a dark, low sound. "You're cute, but you're gonna have to do better than that to get my attention."

She smiled, a wicked, crooked smile. "Just do it," she challenged.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and I felt this sudden, overwhelming urge to tear into her. I wanted to bite her. I wanted to drag my teeth all over her body, starting at her neck and working my way down to her stomach, leaving marks all over her skin. I wanted to rip her open and see what was sugar and blood and bone. I wanted to consume her. I wanted to eat her alive, to feel her heartbeat against my teeth, to know that she was mine, completely and utterly ours. She gave me the worst kind of cannibal urges. I wanted to carve her up and keep her on the mantle next to that clown head.

She wandered off into the pumpkin patch, her boots makin' soft sounds in the dirt. She didn't just pick one. She looked 'em over, like she was inspecting livestock, her hands running over the warty skin of one, then another. She finally settled on a big one, a good, heavy one with a dark, twisted stem. She wrestled it up into her arms, the thing almost as big as her torso, and came waltzin' back to us.

She held it out to Blythe, her eyes locked on his. "I want this one," she said, her voice low and demandin'. "This is the one for me."

I watched Blythe, seeing how he straightened up a little, like he was surprised she'd picked him outta the two of us. He took the pumpkin from her, his hands gentle on the warty skin. "Absolutely," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "You want to carve it, or should I do the honors?"

She smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "Surprise me," she said.

Blythe just nodded, not sayin' another word. He sat the pumpkin in his lap. He started to carve, his movements precise and methodical. Just the scratchin' sound of the knife on the pumpkin skin and the soft thud of the pumpkin guts fallin' onto the dirt.

I leaned back in my chair, the old wood creakin' under my weight, and just watched 'em. I was enjoying this. Mostly because of Blythe, he deserved some attention, too. It was good to see him get a little bit of what I was feeling, to see him connect with her. It was a nice change of pace from our usual routine of blood and guts and death. I took a long drag of my cigarette, the smoke curlin' around me, and watched Blythe work, a satisfied smile on my face. Yeah, this was good. This was real good.

She snagged an old blanket that was draped over a nearby tree branch, the fabric worn thin and faded. Then she came back over to me, her movements slow. She leaned down, her face just inches from mine, her hair falling around her shoulders like a beautiful curtain. "Thanks," she said, her voice a low, husky whisper as she took back her cotton candy.

I just sat there, frozen. It was like she'd put some kind of spell on me, a good one, too. For the first time in my damn life, I was speechless. I just stared at her, takin' her in. Her eyes were a perfect mix of blue and green, the color of that old glass you find out in the woods, the kind that's got bubbles trapped inside it from when it was made. The kind of glass you find after a fire, all sharp and pretty and dangerous. And then there was her body, the way it was shaped when she bent over like that. The low cut of that dress showed off the soft curves of her breasts, and I knew Momma would hate it, and would probably throw a fit. But I didn't give a damn. I wanted her to have that dress in every color, especially a blood red. I wanted to see her in it, and then I wanted to see it torn to shreds on my bedroom floor.